Another day, another dime. At least, that's what Mundy always said.
Sunlight gleamed against the sharpshooter's sweat-slicked skin through the open window of the Sniper's nest, as said man peeked through his the scope of his gun, mumbling nonsense as he aimed for the opposing teams Medic. Dust visibly floated through the filtered afternoon light that shined in the shack.
Spare crates and forgotten supplies were all that filled the small room, aside from a few piss jars and Mundy himself. The floorboards creaked and groaned in protest under his weight as he continuously shifted his position, and he was almost afraid that they'd give way.
He steadied his aim, fingering the trigger, watching the doctor's movement's as he trailed after his Heavy, as per usual. Mundy would've rolled his eyes if he wasn't trying to focus.
A loud crack rang through the sky as he fired, nearly blowing the Medic's head clean off. The gunman chuckled as he watched the BLU Heavy turn, only to see his Medic fall dead to the ground, a bloody corpse, then start firing his mini gun at the RED Scout who happened to be nearby, probably thinking he killed the doctor. Poor sap.
Mundy sat back on the stack of crates he'd been resting on and sighed. Setting his gun aside he removed his hat and wiped the accumulating sweat on his brow. Days like this make him think he's back home where the heat'd make you sweat rivers. Nothing he wasn't used to, though. Yet, did make him a little homesick.
Pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind, the sharpshooter opted to watching the scene below him. Rockets flew left and right, crashing into nearby buildings, gunshots sounded, the RED Heavy gunned down the opposing Pyro, and bombs boomed every now and then. Background noise to the Sniper. It's times like these that he actually enjoys being here, in the midst of chaos. The screams of agony was like a fresh cup of coffee in the morning. Smiling to himself, he picked up his gun, and just when he was decided who to headshot next he heard a noise below him.
Wary, he peeked out the window, spotting the BLU Demoman below him. He watched, eyes gradually growing wide in horror as the Scott launched sticky bombs (thump thump thump, they went) at the base of the nest, the load-bearing support beams that held the entire thing up because why the fuck not, and he wanted to scream at the bastard when he looked up, stared into his eyes and grinned, giving a confident mock-solute.
Spouting profanities, he grabbed his riffle, his Kukri, his will to live, and gunned it for the stairs.
He would've jumped out the window, but quite frankly, he was scared of heights.
But, in the end, he knew he wouldn't make it. Just seconds after his feet began to fly down the steps, the wood seemingly shrieking under his forced weight, explosions rang out and he damn near fell, heart beat pumping in ears.
The shack shook and wood splintered everywhere, rafters began to fall from the ceiling, and the heat. His vision swam.
A stray rafter fell with the rest and clipped him on the shoulder, a particularly thick one mind you, and suddenly he was bruised and bleeding, the blood darkening his already red uniform shirt. He gasped, eyes squinting in pain, but he didn't have the time to stop and assess the damage, because there'd be a whole lot more if he didn't hightail his way out of there.
Then, lot of things happened at once. Smoldering, ink black smoke filled the stairway, leaving him a coughing, gagging mess, nearly helpless as tears welled up in his unfocused, glassy eyes.
Fire slowly began to rear its ugly head as it crawled around the corner and gradually behind him. A few quickened breathes later and he was panicking, and eventually, after one last heaving step from his aching legs, he gave up, fallings to his knees as if to say "You win, Universe!". Besides, with a job such as his, death wasn't anything new.
